


The Universe We Hold Inside

by Crimson_Voltaire



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Offscreen Animal Death, Rating subject to change, more characters and tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-11-06 16:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: With golden string, our universe was clothed in light, pulling at the seams, our once barren world now brims with life, that we may fall in love every time we open up our eyes...-Sunby Sleeping at LastAn anthology of Gramander prompts.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, thank you for embarking on this endeavour with me. I have created this work to store all my Gramander musings and writings. As is, it will be updated sporadically. 
> 
> Nothing here has been edited by anyone but myself, so while I do check, mistakes slip through.

**I. A moment's respite**

* * *

 

“Percival? Have you seen my - oh.”

Newt stills in the doorway to the shed, sweaty and dirty and tired, with his sleeves rolled up and his trousers stained with god knows what. His heart gives a little lurch, painful in a good way because the sight before him is so very beautiful. Percival is reclined in the hammock Newt strung up at some point or another in the corner of the shed. His eyes are closed, smokey black lashes fluttering against the alabaster of his skin, teasing like butterfly kisses. Those pale lavender lids twitch as he dozes. One of his powerful forearms is draped across the flat plains of his stomach, the other trailing out of the hammock until his index finger drags against the smooth floorboards. The obsidian of his hair gleams in the soft sunlight trailing in through the windows, splashing across his face and body and bringing the web of spider silk thin scars that reside there into existence.

He is so very beautiful, in his fitted dark pants and bare feet and soft, cream coloured shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. He is so very beautiful and it makes Newt’s heart ache.

Magic glimmers in the air around the hammock, gentle and so quiet one has to be looking for it to see it at all. Newt notices it because he’s trained himself to look for things out of the ordinary. This magic is woven into the fabric of the hammock, enchanting it to rock back and forth at a languid pace, soothing Percival off into sleep.

Newt smiles, crossing the threshold and creeping over to the dozing man. He kneels down beside the hammock, reaching out ever so slowly to intertwine their fingers together, callouses against callouses, scars against scars. The familiar slide makes Newt warm and tingly and he’s sure the smile on his face is positively ridiculous. The contact wakes Percival, he’s such a light sleeper sometimes, and he rolls his head to look at Newt with sleepy brown eyes. A smile pulls at Graves’ lips, just as dozy and handsome as the rest of him.

“Hi,” Percival murmurs, voice rough with sleep. Newt huffs out a laugh, squeezing the other’s hand gently. He caresses the back of it with his thumb.

“Hello to you too. Did you have a nice nap?”

Percival nods, blinks, yawns, and then stretches. He groans, deep and content, drawing himself into his body. Newt finds himself distracted by the way the Auror’s muscles play beneath his shirt. He’s so caught up in imagining the pull and stretch of those powerful pectorals and the valleys of his abdominals that he misses the arm wrapping around his back until it’s too late. Newt shrieks, wriggling as he’s hauled up into the hammock. Less so because he doesn’t want to be there and more so because Percival’s fingers have landed on a particularly ticklish area that has Newt squirming.

He nearly upsets the hammock; they rock wildly for half a moment before Percival has the bearings to still them. Newt ends up on his front, chest against Percival’s stomach, his lower half between the man’s powerful thighs. “Really, Percival, you could have asked,” Newt huffs, but makes no attempts to move. Instead, he rests his head against the soft cotton of Percival’s shirt and listens to the strong thudding of a strong heart beneath the skin. When Percival speaks, the sound resonates through his ribcage and directly into Newt’s ear.

“You’re here now.”

“I am. But I can’t stay long, I have other things to do.”

Not that Newt wants to do them at this moment. He would much rather remain pressed flush with Percival, listening to the man breathe, the soft rasp of the air in his lungs as it comes and goes; it’s like his own personal lullaby. The hammock begins to rock again, back and forth, back and forth. Newt suddenly feels very sleepy. Percival cards his fingers through Newt’s sweat damp auburn curls, the rough pads of his fingers massaging his scalp, easing away the tension that sometimes grows at Newt’s temples. The magizoologist goes boneless, exhaling loudly in the sudden quiet. It draws a chuckle from Percival.

“Stay,” the Auror commands, gently, “Everything else can wait.”

Newt hums, eyelids growing heavy. He can feel himself slipping away and wonders if he really wants to fight it. “Stay,” Percival says again, as if sensing Newt’s uncertainty. His other hand comes to rest on Newt’s back, heavy and warm and comforting. Newt does as he’s told. He knows that eventually they’ll have to get up; he has chores to finish and editing to do and Percival inevitably has to work, but for now they have this.

A moment’s respite.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, words aren't enough.

**II. Sometimes words aren't enough**

* * *

 

The sound that leaves Newt Scamander’s lips is one O'Brien decides she never, ever wants to hear again. She isn’t even entirely sure it’s human, because it sounds more like the shriek of a wounded creature than something human vocal chords can achieve. The sound bounces off the rough hewn stone of this large, round space, living for far longer than it should be allowed to. 

Given the scene, O'Brien supposes the sound is warranted, even if it makes her insides crawl. 

This is grisly, even for her, she who’s witnessed horrors she never wants to speak of and participated in a fair share of them too. Some of the less seasoned Aurors are retching; a pretty young fella even runs from the room, tears streaming down his face. O'Brien can hear the sound of him being sick outside. But she can’t really blame the kid, only experience and sheer force of will is preventing O’Brien’s breakfast from making a reappearance. 

Even Graves, a normally cool and unflappable bastard, looks upset. The young’uns probably can’t see it, but O'Brien’s known Percival Graves since he was a young buck with big brown eyes and an even bigger ego. She senses the unease in the lines around his eyes, the tight pinch of his mouth and the horror in those coffee-dark irises. 

Newt stumbles forward, through the debris and the dirt and the weeks of dust, towards the once magnificent creatures chained to the floor of this god forsaken place. He falls to his knees beside one of the creatures, which may have once been a dragon but now is little more than a mummified husk, flesh dried and cracking over bones. Newt cradles his head in his hands and lets out a gut wrenching wail, body pitching forward and shoulders curling. He’s collapsing in on himself before them, like a skyscraper falling into oblivion.

The small pack of Aurors shift, sharing uncomfortable glances and silent conversations with their gazes. A junior sniffs, wiping at her eyes and O’Brien sighs sadly. This is their job; they see a lot of shit, but Newt (who O'Brien will admit is a good guy, even if he’s British) doesn’t. It’s a punch in the gut to watch a man who so clearly cares so much about these creatures torn to pieces when he can’t save them. 

She inhales, faltering in a step forward, to say something, to do something, but stills when Graves holds up a hand. An understanding passes between them, silent. But when it comes to Graves, O’Brien oftentimes finds words are unnecessary. So she stays back and watches as her boss picks his way across the carnage slowly, the train of his handsome coat dragging through the filth. He doesn’t seem to mind, focused only on Newt. 

Graves kneels down, joints cracking, and wraps his arms around the magizoologist, tugging him close to his chest. Newt melts into Graves’ embrace and buries his face in the dramatic sweep of Percival’s collar, muffling the awful sound of his weeping. His shoulders continue to shake, body trembling, and O'Brien thinks that Percival’s coat will rip if Newt grips it any tighter. But Graves just holds Newt, just holds him, head resting atop auburn curls, eyes half lidded and glazed over in sadness. 

Just holds him tight and lets him grieve.

Something old and familiar curls in the pit of O’Brien’s belly, a warmth she can’t really identify. She doesn’t need to worry about Newt, because Graves has him, without ever speaking a word. So O’Brien turns and leaves. Her boot scrapes against stone in a way that startles the others from their own gawking. 

“C'mon,” she murmurs, pulling her carton of cigarettes from the breast pocket of her trench coat and lighting up with a flick of her fingers, “There isn’t anything to see here. Let’s go.”

A little prodding has them filing out of that eerie hall, into fresh sunlight and the sweet smell of morning dew. O'Brien is the last one out, the one to close the heavy oak door. Before it shuts, when there’s just a sliver of space left for her to see, she observes as Graves presses a lingering, gentle kiss to Newt’s cheek, nuzzling their faces together. The warmth burns a little brighter in her belly. 

The door closes with a decisive clicking sound, leaving O’Brien standing, staring at it for a moment. Then, she huffs out a chuckle, shaking her head before turning again and meandering over to the little group of Aurors now huddled beneath the shade of a gnarled Willow tree, smoking and muttering amongst themselves.

“What the hell was that?” The recent transfer from Boston, a craggy faced lady with a quick draw and a really bad attitude, asks. 

O'Brien thinks her name is Wolfe, but she isn’t sure. Truth be told she doesn’t really care. She shrugs, dragging smoke into her lungs and answering the woman on the exhale. The image of Graves and Newt sits fresh in her memory, and O'Brien makes sure to file it away with the others she wants to hold close to her heart. 

“A hug.”

The lady sneers at her, ugly face contorting into something uglier, her lips drawing back over her sharp, white teeth. O’Brien really does think her name is Wolfe; it suits her. 

“Isn’t that a little unprofessional?”

O’Brien barely represses the urge to snort; God help them all if this woman ever finds out what she just saw. She imagines the woman’s eyes bulging out of her head in horror. Maybe they’d even pop out entirely. The image almost vanquishes the awfulness of having been inside the mausoleum. 

“Sometimes words aren’t enough,” O’Brien says, and leaves it at that. 


	3. Three

**III. Aftermath**

* * *

 

“Just what do you think you are doing?!”

Percival stills, half way down the corridor of the hospital wing, with it’s cold tile and austere white walls. He’s in his socks, spats tucked under one arm, coat thrown over the other, boots in hand. The medical team gave him an opportunity to escape and he’d taken it, slipping from his room as quiet as a mouse and made like lightning down the hallway.

Except Graves wasn’t expecting one Newton Scamander to confront him in the middle of executing his plan, shattering the peace of the entire ward. Graves’ face pinches into a glower, his nose wrinkling and brows drawing together low over his eyes. Newt’s brows raise in response - Graves has seen that look before, it’s the one Newt uses on the Niffler for Merlin’s sake - and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well?” Newt demands.

There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the sudden thundering of Percival’s heart, before his brain finds his tongue again and figures out how it works.

“I, uh, I was cleared?”

It’s a terrible lie. Graves winces, because Newt’s eyes grow hard, soft green-grey going the colour of sea-glass, sharp and unforgiving.

“That’s odd,” Newt snarls, advancing like a brewing storm, towering over Graves suddenly, “Because I was _just_ talking with Dr. Grant. He was telling me all about how he was going to keep you overnight for observations.”

The American has never before realized how tall Newt actually is, looming over him like an angel of reckoning out of the nomaj book, come to strike Percival down for his misdeeds. Shame flushes through him suddenly, his face going uncomfortably pink.

“I… I…” Graves searches for the words he needs, something to placate Newt and let him slip away without embarrassing himself any further.

If his Aurors find out he was cowed by the man they cuddle and think of as sweet and gentle and maybe a little mischievous, they’ll never let him live it down.   
[It doesn’t matter if they’re wrong, Newt is fierce and awesome and terrifying]   
  
Graves swallows, glancing about. Newt doesn’t give him time to plan anything though, grabbing Percival by the wrist and spinning him on his heel. He slips and slides down the hall, trailing in the magizoologist’s shadow all the way to the nursing station. One of the witches glances up with wide eyes, clearly shocked and more than a little alarmed.

“I have a patient to return,” Newt spits, “Under strict orders to rest by Doctor Grant. He said you have full permission to use a body binding curse if necessary.”

Really? A body binder? _Really?_

“Newt, this isn’t necessary, I’m _fine_.”

Well, his ribs ache and it’s hell to breathe, but Percival went to war and survived Grindelwald. He has scars like lightning from the cruciatus, he knows pain. He’s old friends with it. A few cracked ribs is nothing, really. Newt doesn’t seem to think it’s nothing. He glares at Graves, full of piss and vinegar, before frog marching the Director to his hospital room. Only when Percival has been forced back onto the bed and tucked into the blankets does the magizoologist speak.

“You jumped in front of a curse _for me_ ,” he murmurs, high tenor quiet and deadly, “You broke all twelve of your left ribs and suffered a punctured lung _for me_. Don’t you _dare_ tell me you’re fine. Obviously you don’t have all your faculties about you.”

Did he just?

Graves snorts and then groans, instantly regretting his decision. He places a hand to his side, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Newt’s expression.

“I’d do it again,” he finds himself saying, quiet in the room.

Graves opens his eyes at the hitch in Newt’s breathing, finds the man wiping away a sudden tear. That is Newt for you, his anger is like a sudden storm, raging and then gone in a matter of moments.

“What?” Newt asks, “Why? You could have died.”

“I didn’t,” Percival replies, reaching out to take the other’s work worn hand, stroking his thumb over the battered skin.

“I didn’t. But I would, do it again, for you. You’re worth it, Newt. And to your point, earlier, about people needing me. They need you too.”

_They need you so much_ , Percival thinks. _I need you so much_.

Newt’s chest hitches again. He swipes at his face, catching the tears before Percival sees them and exhales a heavy, watery sigh.

“I won’t make you change your mind, will I?” He asks, giving Graves a tiny smile.

Graves offers him one in return.

“Nope.”

Newt laughs, still weak, but stronger, no longer so close to tears.

“Alright. But I am making you stay here. And I’m serious about the body bind. Behave.”

Percival wants to fire off a mock salute, but figures getting punched isn’t a good idea. Instead, he squeezes Newt’s hand tightly, pulling it up to press a quick kiss to the back.

“For you, anything,” Graves promises. He carries the memory of the way Newt flushes and grins the rest of the day, smiling when it follows him into his dreams.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who leaves comments and kudos! I live and breath feedback!

**IV - Kisses to Make You Stay a Little Longer**

The room in the recovery ward is much quieter than the ER. Here, Newt doesn’t have to contend with yelling and quiet weeping and blood and frantic medical staff - here, he only has nurses side-eyeing him, getting ready to ask him to leave. 

And a sleepy boyfriend.  The onyx of Percival’s hair makes a stark contrast to the sharp white of his pillows and sheets, just as the cream of the bandages spanning his chest are sharply offset by his skin. The doctors have him reclining on his back. One hand rests over his belly, the other cradled in Newt’s own, callouses against callouses. That’s the arm with the IV in it, probably best to keep it as still as possible Newt thinks. 

Percival dozes, pumped full of morphine and coming down off a terrifying adrenaline rush, eyelashes fluttering when something or someone moves outside and makes noise. His door is open still, the nurses too edgy to leave him well and truly alone. Newt think the fact that he’d tried to get up and wander away a few hours earlier probably has something to do it.

In the half-light, Newt absently flips through students’ papers, red pen in his mouth. He glances up when Percival sighs and his eyes flutter open to blearily peer at Newt from between thick black lashes. His lips twitch up slightly in a sleepy, drugged rendition of his usual smile.

“Hey,” Percival says, voice hoarse and slow with sleep and drugs. “Wha’ you still doin’ here?”

Newt sets his pen behind his ear, reaching over to take hold of the cup on the bedside table. He slowly and methodically presses ice chips to Percival’s chapped lips, refraining from answering until they slip into Percival’s mouth. 

“I was waiting for you to wake up,” Newt says finally, leaning in close so he can whisper.

A glance out of the corner of his eye tells him the nurse standing at the station outside is staring at them again, something flickering across her face. It looks a little like frustration. Visiting hours were over five minutes ago, and it’s obvious that she wants Newt  _ out. _ The rest of the ward is mostly dark; Percival’s room is a blip in the blackout, what with the lights dimmed but still on. Everyone else rests in darkness, but not Percival, and maybe that’s what she’s upset about.

Newt sets down the cup and then reaches out to brush the back of his hand against Percival’s cheek, grinning a little at the sandpaper feeling of the man’s stubble against his skin. Percival hums, leaning into Newt’s touch. His lips flickering up in that smile again and it’s enough to melt Newt’s heart. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to go now, darling. The nurses aren’t very happy that I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll see you in the morning.”  
  
The salt and pepper stubble rasps against Newt’s fingers when he slides them along Percival’s jaw and up into the obsidian of the other man’s hair. He carefully cards his fingers through it, loosening the strands from the product and sweat of the day. Percival’s hazy brain takes a moment to process the information Newt has given him. When he does, heavy brows draw together.

“Nngh, stay?” 

His grip tightens around Newt’s hand, a thumb brushing against the back. Newt chuckles, sadness welling up in his gut. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth - the regret at leaving Percival here, regret at going to sleep in their bed while his love has to spend the night in this place, alone. He leans in, kissing Percival’s cheek.  
  
“I can’t darling, I’m so sorry. I want to, but it isn’t allowed.”

Percival hums again, the sound lower and more drawn out - a whine that niggles its way to Newt’s heart and drives a knife into it. 

“Kisses?” Percival asks.

His eyelids are fluttering. Percival is fighting the sedatives and painkillers as best he can; quarreling with his body’s exhaustion too, just to spend more time with Newt. It warms Newt’s heart, but also breaks it. Newt ducks his head again, careful to mind Percival’s injuries, and presses a chaste, warm kiss to his darling’s lips. Percival lifts his head slightly, chasing the contact when Newt goes to pull away. 

“More kisses?” 

Newt relents with a huff of good humor. He presses one, two, three, four, five kisses to Percival’s mouth, even releasing the man’s hand in order to cradle Percival’s face between both his own. Percival smiles happily.   
  
“More?”  
  
The nurse outside clears her throat pointedly. Something like irritation catches in Percival’s brows. He’s too disoriented to respond, really, but a base part of his brain understands the warning. Percival doesn’t ask for any more kisses, realizing his attempts to draw out their time will not be tolerated. His head hits the pillow with a thud, defeat plain across his face. Newt sighs and kisses Percival one more time. It’s as dry and chaste as the others, but this one tastes like a goodbye.  
  
“I love you, darling. I’ll be back tomorrow, alright? You can have as many kisses as you want then, yeah?”   
Percival nods a tiny little nod, inclining his head when Newt pecks the space between those bold brows.   
  
“Love you too, Newt.”

His eyes begin to flutter shut as Newt puts away his things. By the time Newt stands, slipping his bag over his shoulder, Percival is asleep. His chest rises and falls in a deep and easy rhythm. Newt watches for a moment longer, blinking away the prickling sensation that threatens tears. Then he turns and leaves, walking past the impatient nurse without so much as a word. 

He’ll be back tomorrow, first thing, to make good on his promise.


	5. Five

**V. Worry**  
  
Fingers poke and prod Graves, pulling him out of a particularly nice dream. He groans and cracks open an eye, only to find one of Dougal’s own great amber ones peering back at him. The demiguise looks worried, thumbs twiddling. He chitters at Graves, taking the man’s hand and tugging.  
  
“Hmm? Wha?”  
  
Dougal tugs again, peering back over his shoulder towards the case. It’s still open. Something twists in Graves belly; he glances over his own shoulder, finding the other half of the bedspread as neat and tidy as it was when he went to sleep, and then looks for the clock. It’s half gone one.   
  
Graves yanks the covers back and jumps out of bed. His hip shrieks in protest, leg all but collapsing, and Graves has to grip the footboard to keep from falling. He hisses and grits his teeth against the pain, leaning down to scoop up Dougal before limping to the open case.   
  
Graves takes the stairs slowly. His heart pounds in his chest, like a runaway steam engine trying to break the cage of his ribs and escape right out of him. When they’ve made it safely to the bottom - a near miracle with the way Graves’ hands are shaking and his aching hip - Dougal chitters again and points to the nocturnal habitat. Graves swears again, heading towards it.   
  
The entirety of the case is engulfed in night, the light of Newt’s artificial moon their only guide. Graves carefully makes his way through the Thestrals’ forest, stepping over roots and through loam, feet making a constant whispery sound as he moves.   
  
“Where is he, Dougal? What’s wrong?”  
  
Dougal’s eyes glow that eerie blue for half a second, and then he points to a sparse patch of trees. There’s a lump laying in the clearing. Graves’ makes a sound in the back of his throat, rushing over.   
  
Newt lays, illuminated by moonlight, blood trickling down his temple. Graves cries out, falling to his knees beside his husband and gingerly rolling him over.   
  
“Merlin - Merlin please,” he pleads, pressing two fingers to Newt’s throat and feeling for a heartbeat. A sob of relief tears itself from his throat at the strength of the pulse. Graves leans down, pressing a kiss to Newt’s dirty, bloodied curls before scooping  hand under Newt’s head, to cradle the back of his skull, and then wrapping his other arm around the younger man.   
  
“You’re going to be alright, darling,” Graves whispers, “You’re going to be alright.”  
  
Graves shuts his eyes, feeling for the swell of his magic. It’s there, roiling beneath the surface, begging to be let out. Graves grabs hold of it, clenching it tight, and prays that he doesn’t do too much damage to the magical fabric of Newt’s suitcase, before they are a swirl of light and a shriek of a sound and are gone.

* * *

The overnight staff at St. Jude’s hospital are not expecting to see the Director of Magical Security apparate in with an unconscious magizoologist in his arms at butt-o’clock in the morning.   
  
“What on earth?” A matronly nurse yells in the hubbub, “Get him onto a bed!”  
  
Graves sets Newt down gently on the nearest gurney, brushing matted curls back from his face. There’s a deep laceration just in front of his temple which still bleeds sluggishly. Graves bites the inside of his cheek, forcing down the panic which threatens to overwhelm. He needs to be calm, he needs to be Director right now. He can break down and cry later, but right now he needs to be Director, for Newt.  
  
“What happened?” The nurse asks, bringing a basin of warm water and a cloth, beginning to dab at the blood. Graves shakes his head, moving to the other side of the bed to let her work. If she sees his limp, she doesn’t comment.   
  
“I don’t know, I woke up and he wasn’t in bed. I went down into his case and he was sprawled out in a habitat. He probably got kicked.”

“And you have no idea what time that was?”  
  
“No!” Graves growls in frustration, raking a hand through his already disheveled hair, “I just told you-”  
  
“Mr. Graves,” she says, levelling him with a look, “I am merely trying to discover what happened so we can delineate the best course of action.”  
  
Graves huffs, and falls silent. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches as she works, checking Newt over for other injuries. That panic is rising in his chest again; he feels helpless. Graves hates it.  
  
 _Please, please, whoever’s listening. Let him be okay._

* * *

Newt wakes to a rather nice headache and the distinct feeling that he’s in hospital. When he opens his eyes, Newt confirms his theory.   
  
“Fiddlesticks.”  
  
He remembers everything - Freya’s back hoof coming directly for his face, the thought that this was going to hurt. And then darkness. Newt groans, reaching up to rub at his forehead before he looks around the room.   
  
It’s spartan and silent, magic woven into the paint to muffle the sounds from outside. It means it’s quiet, yes, but also that there’s a very good chance no one will hear him if he calls out. Newt sighs, pushing back the blankets gingerly and easing himself to his feet. The tile is cold under his bare soles. Newt shivers.  
  
Just then, the door creaks and the handle jiggles. Percival comes through with a steaming cup of coffee, and stops short in surprise. He looks terrible, bags like bruises under his eyes and a good amount of silvery stubble on his cheeks. Graves starts, as if not expecting Newt to be up and about.  
  
“Newt,” he whispers, relief colouring his tone breathy and soft, “Oh, Merlin.  _Newt_.”  
  
Graves flicks his coffee table to the bedside without another word, crossing the room quickly and taking Newt into his arms. He holds Newt tightly, almost too tight, pressing his face into the magizoologist’s shoulder.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Newt says, reaching up and draping his own arms around Percival’s narrow flanks, “I think I gave you a good scare. I didn’t mean to.”  
  
“You have no idea,” Percival mumbles wetly, nuzzling his face into Newt’s gown, “No idea.”  
  
“Shhh, it’s alright now,” Newt soothe, “I’m alright now, darling.”  
  
Percival nods. His breath hitches and his shoulders tremble. Newt croons, closing his eyes and resting his good cheek against Percival’s head. This is a rather awkward angle, Percival stooped as he is, but it works.   
  
“I’m so sorry,” Newt says, “I’ll make it up to you, promise.”  
  
Graves laughs and draws back, wiping at his eyes. He sighs heavily and drags his hand through his hair, “I’ll take you up on it.”


	6. Six

**VI. Thestral**

* * *

Looking back, Newt supposes he should have put two and two together. But, as it so happens, he never made the connection between the Graves that the breeder from England begged him to find and the Graves sitting across from him at dinner. He isn’t sure why, really; perhaps it was the man’s reserved demeanour, or the exhaustion haunting his eyes. Maybe it was something else entirely. **  
**

So, Newt takes Graves down into his case, along with the rest of the little gang he’s acquired, without much thought.   
  
Credence goes first, followed by Tina, Queenie and then Jacob. Graves goes last, hand flickering to the holster at his hip when his foot hits the first step. He’s tense through his shoulders, neat waistcoat bunching up, and for good reason, Newt supposes. So he smoothes it down, patting Graves gently on the back.   
  
“It’s alright, Mr. Graves. Go slowly, the stairs are steep.” 

They make it down safely, beginning the tour as Newt always has. Dougal comes along with them, as he is prone to do. He wanders over to Graves first, tapping the man’s powerful calf until Graves glances down, and then reaching up to offer his hand. Graves blinks, dark brows quirking, but a small smile tugs at his lips. 

“Hello there,” Graves murmurs, and takes the offered hand. Dougal leads him along through the tour, showing Graves the easiest paths along which to travel, silently gesturing to different creatures. Graves schools his face into a neutral expression, but Newt, who is very good at reading body language, can see the wonder in those coffee-dark eyes. It makes his chest swell with pride and affection - that even such a powerful man can be swayed by his hard work.

Perhaps it is that, and his excitement over having yet another person to share his creatures with that Newt misses it. Newt doesn’t think to mention the Thestrals often. Most people can’t see them, and the ones who can are generally unsettled by their appearance.   
  
Spooky, is what Theseus called them. Eerie.

Considering everyone else has already been introduced, Newt, quite by accident skips over them as they wander through the forest habitat. It’s only when he’s in the middle of explaining the giant dung beetles when he realizes the Director has stopped following them. Dougal has stopped too, peering up at Graves with wide eyes. They flash blue for a moment and Dougal croons.   
  
Graves’ lips are parted, half forming a word no one can hear. His skin, normally pale but tinged with a subtle rosiness has taken on a waxy appearance. It makes Newt’s heart skip a beat. The entire group stops and a hush descends over the case. For a moment, Newt swears he can hear the blood rushing through his veins.

“Are you alright, Mr. Graves?” Credence breaks the quiet, voice taking on a worried edge. He’s shifty, hands clasped together, moving from foot to foot. Waiting for something. Graves blinks out of his reverie, turning away from the thestrals.   
  
“Yes. My apologies.”   
  
When his voice reaches the magnificent creatures on the edge of the forest habitat, one looks up. Graves is turning away, moving towards the little group. Milky white eyes make contact with Percival’s back, studying the way he walks, ears perked.

Then she whinnies.

A thestral’s cry is an unearthly sound; soft and harsh all at the same time, a haunting trille to come back. It’s distinctive, husky and shrill and Newt has never heard it before. Graves stills like stone, something indiscernible flickering across his face; many emotions really, too many to count. Then he turns, boot digging into the soft, earthy floor as he spins on his toe. The thestral is breaking from her herd, trotting over to them.

She’s still whinnying, skeletal head swinging back and forth on her thin neck, those white eyes shining with more life than Newt has ever seen in her. The little stump of her tail flicks up and down with excitement. She only stops when she’s directly in front of  Graves, still crying out to him. She’s gargantuan beside him; all heaving, quivering sides, a wildness to her. With great apprehension, Graves reaches out one hand, palm up and flat. The mare presses her nose into his hand, nostrils flaring wide. She closes her eyes.   
  
Graves makes a suddenly choking sound, reaching up with trembling hands to rest them against the sharp lines of her face. Those big, gentle hands stroke up and over the flat disc of her cheek-bones, caressing the velvet of her thin coat. Graves slides his hand along her face to push back her thick, black forelock, revealing the tiny hint of a white star to be found there. 

Graves muffles a sob, the air escaping in a strangled, cut off gasp. The mare knickers, lifting her head and hooking it over Graves’ shoulder, letting him surge forward and press his face into her thin neck. The man’s body shudders with the force of his tears, clinging to her. Newt’s stomach drops at the reaction, and he turns to look at the others. They share startled looks, faces morphing into something between shock and concern.

It clicks in Newt’s head.

“Oh. Oh dear, it seems I’ve been a fool.”

He abandons the others, striding over to Graves and the thestral. As he approaches, he can hear the muffled whispers Graves is pressing into her coat.

“ _What did they do to you_?”  
  
Newt stops when he’s still a respectful distance away.   
  
“Mr. Graves? I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t make the connection. The breeder I got her from said to find you, that you would take her back.”  
  
Graves pulls away, kissing the mare’s soft nose before wiping viciously at his eyes with the palms of his hands.   
  
“Aberfore in France?” He asks gruffly, blinking away the tears.   
  
“Yes.”  
  
Graves inhales a shuddering breath, turning away from the thestral and towards Newt. The hatred in his eyes is breathtaking, those dark irises burning with such a passion Newt is almost sure he will be struck dead.   
  
“When I sold her to them, I thought I was selling her to someone who would take care of her,” he spits, voice dripping with venom, “I was promised she’d be safe. Tell me, Mr. Scamander, do they make it a habit of lopping off thestral’s wings and tails in Europe?”

Newt flinches, the accusation piercing his heart as effectively as a killing curse. Graves doesn’t apologize, his face set in stony rage. The magizoologist raises his hands, backing up a few steps to give the Director space.   
  
“I was told she was involved in an accident, Mr. Graves, both her wings were badly damaged and had to be removed to save her the pain.”  
  
Graves’ lip curls back over his teeth, “And the tail?”  
  
Disgust wells in Newt’s throat at the reminder.   
  
“Poachers.”  
  
Graves snarls, small sparks flickering about his hands. The mare knickers again, growing agitated with the anger roiling in the atmosphere around her. Graves sags at the sound, shoulders rolling forward as if weighed down by defeat. The thestral creeps forward again, nuzzling into Graves’ side. It’s such a striking scene, Director Graves with this massive, gaunt beast, stroking her without any fear or apprehension.   
  
Newt remembers his own nervousness, the first time he had seen a thestral. They were so strange looking, so ghostly, he’d been afraid to get close lest they disappear like a spectre.   
  
But Graves has an easiness to him, reaching up to caress an area behind her pole. The mare groans, inclining her head and leaning into the touch. Jacob barks out a laugh, the sound carrying over to them and tugging a little smile onto Graves’ lips. The anger is still there, the hurt at seeing a creature he obviously loves in pain, but the threat of immediate death has been avoided.

“How much did you buy her for?” Graves asks suddenly. He’s reaching into his coat, pulling out a coin purse. Newt blinks. 

“Pardon me?”

“How much did you buy Persephone for?”   
  
Graves begins to count out gold pieces, muttering to himself under his breath. Persephone hooks her head over his shoulder again, clearly curious. Newt’s mouth goes dry. 

“Mr. Graves, I was never intending to sell her.”

Graves gives him a startled look, a sharp look, betrayal flickering across his face. Newt groans inwardly, forcing his tongue to continue before he makes this mess any worse.

“Aberfore asked me to take her and give her back to you,” he explaines in a hasty rush, “You see, the his estate is suffering the fate of many of the grand Manors in Europe following the war. They were downsizing and simply could not afford to keep her. Lord Aberfore offered Persephone to me on the condition that I would find you and give her back.”

The hand counting out the pieces stills. More emotions flicker across Graves’ face, and then there’s a palpable relief tinting the air. Newt feels it too, and heaves out a great breath he didn’t know he was holding. Graves puts away the gold and the coin purse, slipping it back into his jacket pocket before stepping forward. Newt expects a handshake or something cool and detached. Instead, he finds himself being dragged into a hug, Graves’ face pressed against his neck.

“Thank you,” Percival murmurs, “For taking care of her.”

Newt awkwardly wraps his arms around Graves’ deceptively broad shoulders, patting the fine fabric of his shirt. Affection settles in his heart, “You’re most welcome, Mr. Graves. Most welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think and/or come scream at me on tumblr. I reside at luminis-infinite@tumblr.com. Cheers.


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